“Yes sir, I believe he is.”
“Then he’ll be in the phone book?”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well…no sir. I believe Mr. Langley has an unlisted number.”
“Could you tell me what it is? I’m a personal friend.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot reveal that information.”
He was tempted to say, “This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department, and this is official business.” Or, he could easily get the number from the phone company, as an official police inquiry. But then he thought better of it. The fewer people who knew of his activities, the better.
“My name is Edward Delaney,” he said. “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to call Mr. Langley at the number you have, tell him I called, and if he wishes to contact me, he can reach me at this number.” He then gave her the phone number of the 251st Precinct.
“Yes sir,” she said. “I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up, wondering what percentage of his waking hours was spent on the telephone, trying to complete a call, or waiting for a call. He sat patiently, hoping Langley was in. He was: Delaney’s desk phone rang within five minutes.
“Delaney!” Christopher Langley cried in his remarkably boyish voice (the man was pushing 70). “Gosh, I asked for Lieutenant Delaney and your operator said it was Captain Delaney now. Congratulations! When did that happen?”
“Oh, a few years ago. How are you, sir?”
“Physically I’m fine but, gee, I’m bored.”
“I heard you had retired.”
“Had to do it, you know. Give the young men a chance-eh? The first year I dabbled around with silly things. I’ve become a marvelous gourmet cook. But my gosh, how many Caneton a l'Orange can you make? Now I’m bored, bored, bored. That’s why I was so delighted to hear from you.”
“Well, I need your help, sir, and was wondering if you could spare me a few hours?”
“As long as you like, dear boy, as long as you like. Is it a big caper?”
Delaney laughed, knowing Langley’s fondness for detective fiction.
“Yes sir. A very big caper. The biggest. Murder most foul.”
“Oh gosh,” Langley gasped. “That’s marvelous! Captain, can you join me for dinner tonight? Then afterwards we can have brandy and talk and you can tell me all about it and how I can help.”
“Oh I couldn’t put you to that-”
“No trouble at all!” Langley cried. “Gee, it’ll be wonderful seeing you again, and I can demonstrate my culinary skills for you.”
“Well…” Delaney said, thinking of his evening visit to Barbara, “it will have to be a little later. Is nine o’clock too late?”
“Not at all, not at all! I much prefer dining at a late hour. As soon as I hang up, I’ll dash out and do some shopping.” He gave Delaney his home address.
“Fine,” the Captain said. “See you at nine, sir.”
“Gosh, this is keen!” Langley said. “We’ll have frogs’ legs sauteed in butter and garlic, petite pois with just a hint of bacon and onion, and gratin de pommes de terre aux anchois. And for dessert, perhaps a creme plombieres pralinee. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine,” Delaney repeated faintly. “Just fine.”
He hung up. Oh God, he thought, there goes my diet, and wondered what happened when sauteed frogs’ legs met broiled kidney.
A young woman was walking toward Central Park, between Madison and Fifth Avenues, pushing a baby carriage. Suddenly a wooden rod, about nine inches long, was projecting from her breast. She slumped to her knees, falling forward, and only the fast scramble of a passerby prevented the baby carriage from bouncing into Fifth Avenue traffic.
Delaney, who was then a detective lieutenant working out of Homicide East (as it was then called) arrived on the scene shortly after the woman died. He joined the circle of patrolmen and ambulance attendants staring down incredulously at the woman with the wooden spike driven through her breast, like some modern vampire.
Within an hour they had the missile identified as a quarrel from a crossbow. Delaney went up to the Arms and Armor Department of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeking to learn more about crossbows, their operation, range, and velocity of the bolts. That was how he met Christopher Langley.
From the information supplied by the assistant curator, Delaney was able to solve the case, to his satisfaction at least, but it was never prosecuted. The boy responsible, who had shot the bolt at a stranger from a townhouse window across the street, was the son of a wealthy family. They got him out of the country and into a school in Switzerland. He had never returned to the United States. The District Attorney did not feel Delaney’s circumstantial evidence was sufficiently strong to warrant extradition proceedings. The case was still carried as open.
But Delaney had never forgotten Christopher Langley’s enthusiastic cooperation, and his name was added to the detective’s “expert file.” Delaney frequently recalled a special memory of the skinny little man. Langley was showing him through a Museum gallery, deserted except for a grinning guard who evidently knew what to expect.
Suddenly the assistant curator plucked a two-handed sword from the wall, a XVI Century German sword as long as he was tall, and fell into a fighting stance. The blade whirled about his head in circles of flashing steel. He chopped, slashed, parried, thrust.
“That’s how they did it,” he said calmly, and handed the long sword to Delaney.
The detective took it, and it almost clattered to the floor. Delaney estimated its weight as thirty pounds. The wiry Christopher Langley had spun it like a feather.
When he opened the door to his apartment on the fifth floor of a converted brownstone on East 89th Street, he was exactly as Delaney remembered him. In another age he would have been called a fop or dandy. Now he was a well-preserved, alert, exquisitely dressed 70-year-old bachelor with the complexion of a maiden and a small yellow daisy in the lapel of his grey flannel Norfolk jacket.
“Captain!” he said with pleasure, holding out both hands. “Gosh, this is nice!”
It was a small, comfortable apartment the ex-curator had retired to. He occupied the entire top floor: living room, bedroom, bath, and a remarkably large kitchen. There was a glass skylight over the living room which, Delaney was glad to see, had been fitted with a guard of iron bars.
Langley took his hat and overcoat and hung them away.
“Not in uniform tonight, Captain?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I am not on active duty. I’m on leave of absence.”
“Oh?” Langley asked curiously. “For long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well…do sit down. There-that’s a comfortable chair. Now what can I bring you? Cocktail? Highball?”
“Oh, I don’t-”
“I have a new Italian aperitif I’m trying for the first time. It’s quite dry. Very good on the rocks with a twist of lemon.”
“Sounds fine. Are you having one?”
“Of course. Just take me a minute.”
Langley bustled into the kitchen, and the Captain looked around. The walls of the living room were almost solid bookcases with deep, high shelves to accommodate volumes on antique weaponry, most of them out-size “art books” illustrated with color plates.
Only two actual weapons were on display: an Italian arquebus of the 17th century with exquisitely detailed silver-chasing, and an African warclub. The head was intricately carved stone. Delaney rose to his feet and went over to inspect it. He was turning it in his hands when Langley came back with their drinks.
“Mongo tribe,” he said. “The Congo. A ceremonial ax never used in combat. The balance is bad but I like the carving.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? Dinner in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, let’s relax. Would you like a cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”